If Trouble Was Money
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: "It's 340 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, six bags of turkey jerky, it's cloudy, and we're wearing sunglasses." "What?" "No, dude, the line is-" "Just drive." ::: The one with the hex box, The Walnut Kid, and a burgeoning friendship...and nobody leaves this fic without singin' the blues.
1. Prologue

"No," Sheriff Stilinski said firmly, arms crossed, staring Deaton down, and for a moment, Stiles thought that maybe the whole, rotten idea would be scrapped in favor of something that wouldn't end in Isaac tearing Stiles' face off with his teeth.

Because, if he was entirely honest, Stiles could admit that no one in their right mind wanted to spend five days on the road trapped in a car with him and his ADHD. The fact that Isaac seemed to have something against Stiles (which was totally unfair, because Stiles wasn't the one going around stealing other dude's best friends) made the likelihood of Stiles' untimely demise on I-80 all the more likely. And, yeah, okay, letting it slip to his father that the 'bro-d trip' he and Isaac were about to embark upon was actually an incredibly dangerous mission to deliver a dead dark mage's hex box to New York so it could be destroyed might have been intentional. There was no way the sheriff would be okay with his only child trekking across the country to take the metaphorical Ring to Mount Doom with a werewolf he didn't get on with as his Sam.

Or maybe Isaac would be Gollum. Pretend to be nice and bring him dead rabbits and shit, then get him eaten by a giant spider. He was insidious like that.

So instead of standing with Deaton and Derek, who were both doing their best to convince Stiles' dad of the necessity of the venture, Stiles stood in the corner, poking absently at the hex box in Isaac's arms and making faces at it when the symbols carved into it squiggled in what he assumed was meant to be a threatening manner. He'd just gotten done tapping out the William Tell Overture on the lid to see if he could make the runes dance when Lydia snapped.

"Stiles, cut it out."

He glanced around, face falling when he took in the glowing eyes of the werewolves in the room (sans Isaac, hence Stiles' current predicament) and the tense postures of both Deaton and Lydia. Right. Hex box exudes influence on supernatural entities, annoying hex box annoys said entities. He settled back with a huff, peering at Lydia contemplatively and wondering, not for the first time, how far her supernatural-ness ran. He wondered if her unearthly beauty had anything to do with it.

"See, this is what we mean," Derek growled, forcing his shoulders to relax and pretending he couldn't see Stiles' reflection in the glass of the medicine cabinet when the teen stuck his tongue out at him. "Stiles and Isaac are the only ones not easily affected by the box, which means they're the only ones who will be able to take it to Deaton's friend without doing something stupid."

"Well," Isaac said quietly, "stupider than the things Stiles normally does, anyway."

"You're getting strapped to the roof the whole way," Stiles promised.

It wasn't that Stiles hated Isaac or anything. He kind of liked the guy, even - he had a dry sense of humor that Stiles could totally get behind, and he was crafty as hell. But something about him made Stiles uneasy - possibly the echo of, 'channeling it into killing her,' running through his mind on some kind of demonic loop. Stiles didn't trust people easily, and so far Isaac hadn't really proven that he could be trusted. Proven that he was okay with murdering innocent, strawberry-blonde goddesses, sure.

Scott, though...Scott trusted people. He was about the most gullible, easy-going person Stiles had ever met, and it wasn't too much of a surprise that all it had taken were a few sad-puppy looks for Scott to welcome Isaac into his life with open arms. And now they were practically the best of buds, hanging out and doing secret wolf-y things in the woods together, Isaac slotting easily into the sarcastic-best-friend space Stiles had occupied since kindergarten. Even Melissa had fallen for him, taking him into her home and everything, letting him use Stiles' spare sleeping bag and doing Isaac's laundry for him and making him cookies. It was sickening.

And, yeah, okay, so Stiles had deep-seated issues with Isaac, but one couldn't really call it hatred. It was just...mutual mistrust and annoyance. It wasn't as though Isaac was doing anything to bridge the gap, either, Stiles thought grumpily as he tuned back into the conversation.

"No," John was saying again, lifting a hand to forstall Deaton and Derek's protests, and Stiles felt his lips twitch into a grin. He was so off the hook. "I know Stiles is eighteen and can make his own choices, but there's no way I'm letting him drive cross-country in an ancient Jeep. Get him a decent car, and we'll talk."

What?

_What?_

Stiles' mouth dropped open. "Dad...wh- no! Dad, you're supposed to be on my side! The sensible side, where we don't send Stiles to New York with a nuclear reactor of wicked juju in the backseat!"

"Do we have another choice?" John said wearily, flinging his arms out to the sides as he looked at Stiles helplessly. "I don't like it any more than you do, but it can't stay here, it can't stay anywhere. It has to be destroyed, and you and Isaac are the only people here who can just up and leave who aren't affected by whatever's inside that box. I'm not seeing a lot of other options here."

Which was horribly, terribly true, and Stiles knew it. Groaning, he let his head fall back against the wall.

Sometimes, Stiles' life sucked donkey ass.

The car Peter ended up buying special for the occasion did nothing to help Stiles' mood.

"Everything sucks," he wailed into the dawn, tossing the backpack holding the hex box into the backseat of the forest green Oldsmobile 98 and slamming the door. "This is officially the worst pre-college adventure ever."

"I don't know," Isaac said, shrugging because he knew it would annoy Stiles; Isaac did a lot of things that annoyed Stiles, and the brunet was positive that it was always intentional, "I kind of like it. Looks sturdier than the death trap you usually drive," he added in a mutter that Stiles was supposed to hear.

"Oh, please. Do you know how old this thing is? This is, like, the era of shoulder pads and _Miami Vice_." Stiles wrinkled his nose at it, partly on principle, because nobody liked an Oldsmobile, and partly because the interior smelled like Old Spice and tobacco. How Isaac could stand it was beyond him. "If this makes it to New York City, I'll eat my favorite hoodie. With hot sauce."

"Deal," Isaac replied easily, sliding into the passenger seat with a brief wave at the pack gathered outside the Stilinski house.

"Ugh." Giving in, Stiles flung his arms around his father. "Be good. Eat the meals I left in the freezer - there are instructions on them about heating and all that. I'm gonna check with Scott and Melissa to make sure you ate all the green things, okay? No welching on our deal."

"No welching," John agreed softly as he let go.

Then, because he was kind of a dick, Stiles grabbed Scott and hugged him hard. "See you soon, man. Stay out of trouble."

"Dude, you're gonna be gone for a week," Scott huffed into Stiles' shoulder, hugging him back nonetheless. "I doubt the whole place is gonna fall into a sinkhole while you're gone."

"Yeah, so you say, but we all know I'm the glue that holds this whole town together." The embrace was weirdly comforting, but then, Scott's hugs usually were - a weird mix of camraderie, brotherly affection, and an overwhelming aura of protectiveness - and when Stiles was finally released, he was too zen to even bother smirking at Isaac, who was watching the proceedings with a blank expression.

"Right," he chirped with a bright smile as he started the car, "let's get this show on the road!"

As they pulled out of the drive, Stiles brought up his special road trip mix on his iPod and pressed play. The car was instantly filled with the dulcet tones of Willie Nelson.

"Oh, God," Isaac groaned, eyes squeezing shut as he leaned forward as though he'd been shot in the stomach.

"On the road again! I just can't wait to get on the road again! Come on, Isaac, sing," Stiles jibed, reaching out to poke his passenger in the side. "The life I love is makin' music with my friends, and I can't wait to get on the road again!"

As Isaac continued to moan like a dying man, Stiles turned up the volume and sat back, tapping out an easy rhythm on the wheel.

Maybe the trip wouldn't be so bad.


	2. You're Bard

The trip hadn't been too terrible, in Stiles' opinion, no matter what Isaac said about the music. If there had been any hope of them forming a friendship, it had surely been shattered and ruined when Stiles had put on The Ramones.

"This isn't even music. It's noise."

"Watch your mouth, you heathen! You sound like a grandpa, by the way."

"The guy can't even sing."

"Heathen Grandpa!"

"Stiles, if you don't put on something that doesn't sound like cats being set on fire, I'm going to shut you in the trunk."

Aside from that, though (and a memorable incident at the Arby's drive-thru when Isaac had drawn the girl at the window into a three-way debate about the merits of Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, and Stiles totally would have won if they hadn't ganged up on him), the drive had been mostly quiet. Isaac seemed content to curl up in the passenger seat and watch the scenery pass by, only piping up to insult every third song that came on, leaving Stiles to his thoughts. Which, considering his usual state of mind (what Melissa liked to call Howler Monkeys Arguing), were fairly calm.

Being on the road did that for him sometimes - there was something hypnotic about road trips that Stiles liked. He wasn't sure if it was the steady slip of the lines on the road, the sight of the pavement stretching out in front of him, the thought of being able to go anywhere, do anything. Whatever it was, it eased his mind, and save for the persistant tap-tap of his thumbs to the beat of whatever was playing, he was more relaxed than ever.

Of course, that changed when they started to approach Nevada.

"Dude, we have to stop in Reno!"

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Stiles, we're not on a scenic tour, remember? We have a mission, and we can't make detours to every interesting tourist trap you spot."

"Reno," Stiles ground out, white-knuckled grip on the wheel making his hands ache, "is not a tourist trap."

"No, it's worse. The last thing we need is you betting your soul against a fiddle of gold when we're in the middle of something important."

"Oh, so it's okay if I bet my soul when we're not on a schedule? Besides, what do you think this is, an episode of Supernatural? And did you just quote the Charlie Daniels Band at me?" Stiles eyeballed Isaac sceptically, but the other teen gave nothing away. "Dude, you totally did. You just quoted 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia' at me. I don't know if that earns you awesome points or takes them away."

He made sure to whimper as pathetically as possible when they passed the Reno exits, though, because he knew that when he did that, some wolf-y instinct in Scott just melted into a big, woobie puddle. It didn't seem to have the same effect on Isaac, who merely raised an eyebrow and went back to nibbling on cold Arby's fries.

Gross.

They stopped in Elko to eat again some time later, Isaac agreeing to take over the driving once they'd eaten until they got to their motel in Salt Lake City. It looked like a nice enough place to Stiles, open and bright. He liked that about the southwest - how big the sky seemed, how everything seemed to stretch on forever. He could get used to it.

The restaurant was called Cimarron Way, and it was a nice, clean spot with fairly slow service, but decent food. It reminded Stiles a little of Denny's, and the coffee wasn't tar, so he was chalking it up as a good choice on his part. It would have been a lot better if they hadn't been accosted by a group of ye olde minstrels just outside the doors, strumming mandolins and singing folk songs at the pair of them in a worryingly aggressive manner.

"Are they actually wearing tights?" Isaac looked horrified for their sakes.

Stiles snorted, snapping a couple of pictures on his phone. "Their life choices are their business. So long as they don't try to guilt me into giving them money, they can get on with their Greensleevesing in peace."

That had earned him a small grin, something he hadn't expected out of Isaac, and with it, a sort of ease settled over them as they slid into a booth.

"So," Stiles began when their drinks had arrived, twisting his straw paper between his fingers absently until it was one long, thin rope, "college."

"Mmhmm." Chin in hand, Isaac gazed out at the troubadors as they (for lack of a better term) frolicked, fingers of his other hand drumming along with whatever tune they were mangling.

"Where are you going?"

Isaac paused in his drumming, eyes sliding to the side briefly as he considered his reply. "UC Davis," he mumbled finally.

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles swallowed, twisting his straw paper tighter. "That's where Scott's going. Vet med."

"Yeah, he's the one who suggested I apply."

Awkwaaaaard, Stiles' brain supplied as he dipped his straw in his Sprite and pressed his thumb to the open end. Carefully, he dripped the soda on the straw paper at random points, causing the paper to wriggle and writhe like a snake as it absorbed fuild and expanded. He glanced up, watching Isaac watch Stiles' straw paper. "How about you?"

"Pre-med."

Stiles sat back, eyebrows flying upward. "Really? You're gonna be a doctor?"

This got him a wry smile. "You sound surprised. Don't think I can do it?"

Shrugging, Stiles went back to making his straw peper snake wiggle. "No, it's not that. I just...I don't know what I was expecting," he admitted, "but it wasn't that."

"I wasn't expecting it either," Isaac said, picking up his own straw paper and twisting it like Stiles had. "I didn't know what I was gonna do. I never really thought I was going to college, not until Derek started asking about applications and stuff. So, yeah, it wasn't really my..." He trailed off, fingers stilling against the paper, eyes distant.

"Your...?" Stiles prompted, lifting his straw and taking his finger off the end, sucking the rest of the soda out of the end.

"It was Erica's thing," he finished, voice nearly a whisper. "She wanted to be a doctor."

Stiles shoved the straw back through the ice and took a swig of his drink, because really, what was there to say to that? 'Sorry your friend died horribly before she could achieve her dream'? Yeah, no. Stiles was an ass with no verbal filter, but that was pushing it, even for him. And he'd liked, Erica, despite her being terrifying. He didn't even sort of want to disrespect her. Even as he swallowed the words, a sudden thought came to him, unbidden and unwanted and uncomfortably sympathetic.

Isaac's friends were dead.

And, oh, Stiles didn't like how he felt about that, all soppy and concerned, understanding a little better just why Isaac was clinging to tightly to Scott, the only other werewolf his age in town. He was actually fairly surprised at how long it had taken him to make the connection. Isaac and Scott had been getting along before Boyd and Erica had tried to leave Beacon Hills, but they hadn't really connected until afterwards. It made Stiles feel a little rotten for the way he'd behaved, the uncharitable things he'd thought. But just a little. A smidge. A teensy-weensy, barely-there bit. Not really all that rotten, actually. Just kind of...less-than-stellar.

Stiles needed desperately to start thinking about something else.

"I'm hoping to go to CSU for criminalistics," he offered tentatively, shoulders twitching in an awkward shrug. "'Cuz, you know, it's all puzzles. I do love a good puzzle."

"You'd be good at it," was the reply, which was the nicest thing Isaac had ever said to Stiles. Definitely a win. "Thought you'd want to be a cop. You know, because of your dad."

"Yeah, no. Too much running around, getting shot at. Or, if I follow my dad's lead and get a job in a small town, too much rousting horny teens from badly-concealed makeout spots with threats to tell their parents at the Fourth of July community picnic. Nah," he lisped, chewing on his straw. "Give me a lab somewhere where I can nail perps to the wall with cold, hard facts without having to go around getting shot at, and I'll be happy."

As he said it, a flash of brightly-colored movement caught his eye through the door. The herd of troubadors (or was it a troop? a flock? a pod?) was stampeding...to their van...from the Oldsmobile _with his and Isaac's bags and the backpack holding the hex box holy fuck._

"Band on the run!" Scrambling up, Stiles threw down a couple of bills for the food and grabbed Isaac by the shoulder of his jacket, dragging him out of the booth. "Band on the run! They have our stuff!"

"Wha-?" Stumbling out into the parking lot, the pair gaped as the Volkswagon van peeled away. Or, tried to. It didn't have great pickup, apparently. Isaac growled. "Come on."

They slid into the car in tandem, Isaac wrenching the keys from Stiles and flooring it as soon as he got it started. Aretha started belting 'Respect' as they roared up behind the van as it careened onto the on-ramp.

"Dude, easy on the curves! We're not gonna catch them if you put us through the guard rail!"

Sniffing haughtily, as though Stiles had mortally offended him, the werewolf eased into the flow of traffic. "I know how to drive, Stiles."

"Do you? Do you really?"

"Of course. Derek made sure I learned, got my license, all that. I wouldn't be driving at all if I didn't have one." Isaac took the time to signal before changing lanes, accelerating as he weaved in and out of traffic.

"Well...well, yeah. Pfft. Of course."

"I've never chased someone before, though, so this is new. Fun, too."

Stiles rolled his eyes, then squeaked, throwing his hands out in front of himself as though he could ward off a crash. "Semi, semi, semi!"

"I see it, Stiles," Isaac sighed, squeezing in front of a Prius whose driver honked at them. Of course, it was a Prius, so it really only made the duo snort in unison. "Werewolf reflexes, remember?"

"You say, but if we die, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so'."

"Fair enough."

Stiles gestured wildly. "There! Middle lane, five cars ahead!"

As they pulled up alongside, Isaac and Stiles both blinked.

"Ye Olde Jongleur Boogie?" Isaac groaned. "I don't even know what to do with that."

"Hate it with a burning passion," Stiles suggested as they came even with the driver. Rolling down his window, Stiles poked his head out and shouted, "Hey! Sir Fuckface! Pull over or we'll make you pull over!"

The driver glowered at him and, in a supremely stupid move, jerked the steering wheel to the left, intent on running the Oldsmobile off the road. Stupid because Isaac, with his keen werewolf badassery, hit the brakes long enough for the van to go flying past them, up over the median, and slam into the highway partition with a cringe-worth crunch.

Pulling over, Isaac flung himself out of the car and, with a snarl, tore the back doors open, setting the troubadours to screaming and cowering. "Stealing," he said as Stiles scrambled into the vehicle to gather up their belongings, "is for knaves."

"Verily," Stiles agreed, kicking the nearest minstrel in the shin, slightly-hypocritically stealing his feathered cap and shouldering the backpack. He tossed the other two bags to Isaac, who gave the troop another mighty glower (that Stiles suspected he'd learned from Derek) and slammed the doors shut again.

They pulled back onto the highway as sirens started wailing in the distance, grinning at each other like morons as they booked it out of there. There was a jittery feel to things now, adrenaline pumping through both of them as they giggled quietly, Stiles setting the cap on the dashboard like a trophy. Isaac even sang along when Stiles put 'Respect' on again, and Stiles decided that being friends with the werewolf might not be so impossible. After all, they were already having all kinds of fun.

"So," he said when they fell into silence again, turning the radio down. "That was pretty awesome."

"Yeah."

"We totally just chased a travelling Renn Faire band down I-80 and ran them off the road like badasses."

"Technically," Isaac put in as he relaxed back against the seat, "they ran themselves off the road."

"True, true. Still, we kicked ass."

Isaac's lips twitched again. "Yeah, we totally did."

"As did Paulina here," Stiles added, running a conciliatory hand over the dashboard.

Brow scrunching, Isaac shook his head. "Paulina?"

"She looks like a Paulina, don't you think?"

"No. Stiles, no, we're not naming the car Paulina. Nobody should ever be named Paulina."

"But-"

"We are not naming it. Anything. Especially Paulina."

"Her, Isaac. Paulina is a her."

"Oh, God." Reaching over, Isaac enthusiastically turned up the music again. "Just shut up."

Stiles snickered, watching the signs fly by as they made their way to Salt Lake City.


End file.
